


Home

by Anonymous



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity and Reassurance, Post-Breakdown Cuddles and Comforts, Reader-Insert, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28441254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You storm out of your lab an hour early after every conceivable thing has gone wrong with your day - not knowing what you need to make it better, just knowing you need to be home, in the arms of the woman you’ve found home in.
Relationships: Jillian Holtzmann/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: Anonymous





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> For Julia, my Jillian, and our Lily and Charlie. Chinchilla incident inspired by real events. ;) We can have a little self-indulgent fantasy of being taken care of by a beautiful blonde engineer while we’re all at our mental and emotional limits, as a treat! 
> 
> It's always a bit of a dilemma to decide who would call Holtz what in any given story, so I decided her wife would be allowed to call her Jillian (but probably no one else).

You barely make it through the door of your home before you’re kicking your shoes in the general vicinity of the pile that also holds your daughters’ rain boots, overturned and mud-splattered. On any other day, you may have been irritated by the sight - at your daughters, for flinging their filthy shoes aside without regard for the white walls of your front room, or at your wife, for not (for  _ never _ ) taking a wipe to their boots after a day of playing outside - but it has been a long damn day. The longest damn day. The kind of day where absolutely everything within reach was falling apart, imploding silently and unbeknownst to you for a long time leading up to your discovery of how positively, irreparably fucked it now was. 

Seven hours ago, you learned that the data you and your co-authors have been collecting for an important research project over the course of six months was likely irreversibly corrupted, a statistically-insignificant compilation of absolute nonsense. And while over the years you’ve come to accept the former is an annoying yet necessary part of scientific discovery, the latter is the aspect of this roadblock that makes you seethe with rage. Not only is it off-the-mark, it’s unusable. You won’t even be able to refine your hypotheses for future research with this data; it makes  _ no  _ sense. 

You’ve spent the entire day and then some trying to discern where the error(s) occurred - in your metrics or your methods or your means of analysis - to no avail. You ran and re-ran the numbers; you tried recalibrating your tools, and you even pulled the raw data to look at line-by-line to check if somewhere you transposed a couple zeroes where you shouldn’t have. But all of your best efforts culminated only in frustrated tears. You stormed out of your lab an hour early, not knowing what you needed to make it better, just knowing you needed to be  _ home _ . 

Without breaking your stride in your warpath from the door to the living room, your blazer is the next thing you cast aside as you go, followed by your scarf. You throw them with as much force as the thin, flowy fabric allows for, which is not as much as you would have liked. Where they land is irrelevant to you. You’re T-minus ten seconds until you have a full-blown breakdown, and you want to be seated with as few reminders of this day on your body when you do. 

You draw in an angry breath that shudders as you fight to keep contained for a few moments longer. Peering around the corner of the hallway, you listen for the sounds of your children or your wife, but the house is quiet and still. A glance at the calendar note on your phone reminds you Jillian and the girls were scheduled to have dinner at the firehouse tonight, and they must have already left. No home that houses Jillian Holtzmann herself, let alone the two pint-sized carbon copies she brought into the world, is ever quiet and still. 

You’re relieved, though you never feel entirely good about feeling relieved when she’s not around to witness you at your most volatile. 

Despite the decade you’ve spent by each other’s side, loving each other ferociously and challenging each other to grow, you still struggle with the raw exposure of being seen at your lowest and least-composed. You prefer the moments you share with her to consist of the times you smile together, create together, sprint boldly and breathlessly toward the future together. In equal measure, you prefer your relationship  _ isn’t  _ defined by the times you cry on her, lose your shit in front of her, or otherwise give her reason to second-guess being with you, the person who’s supposed to have it all figured out. 

Not that she ever would. 

But not that you ever stop thinking about it, either. 

Flopping down hard on the couch, you press your hands to your lips and release the cry that’s been lodged in your throat since nine o’clock this morning. You scream, and it starts as a low growl in your throat which morphs into a crescendoing shriek before your frustration gives way to harsh, wracking sobs, and you give into them. Rivers of tears cascade past your eyes and down your cheeks. You’d rather be angry than sad, but you  _ are  _ sad and you  _ are  _ disappointed, whether you want to be or not. You cared about that project - cared about what that project could have meant for society - and you may have invested six months of work not to have anything to show for it at the end. 

“ _ Fuck me _ ,” you gasp out in between ragged breaths. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck  _ me _ !” 

You wallow in the beat of silence that passes, and you wonder how many you’re going to need before you feel okay again. Sliding your hands upward, you press your fingers firmly against your eyes, demanding the tears to stop as though you can force them to acquiesce to the strength of your will. 

It doesn’t work as well as you hope. Your present inability to control your emotions just inspires new waves of them. You give up, resigning yourself to exhausting yourself until you can pass out in bed and forget. When you wake up fifteen hours from now, you’ll pretend it never happened at all. Then you’ll probably solve the problem with a clear head and feel even  _ worse  _ for letting it get the best of you.

But before you can commit to your plan, a familiar voice speaks up from somewhere off to the side of you and startles you. Its owner nervously clears her throat as though she has no idea how to get your attention without making things worse. 

“Uh…that could be arranged?” 

You whirl around in the direction of the voice to find your wife standing in the shadows of the dining room, fidgeting nervously with the unbuttoned strap of her gloves. In the dim light, you can nonetheless make out blue eyes filled with concern. Though her words are teasing, and under normal circumstances may have been accompanied by a wink or a smirk, her timbre is tender, soft and serious and so very  _ un _ like her that you aren’t sure what to make of it. 

You can’t imagine she’s making fun of you, but you can’t figure out what she  _ is  _ doing, either. 

“I am  _ not  _ in the mood, Jillian Holtzmann,” you snap, maybe a little too sharply. 

She flinches at the intensity of your tone, and you kick yourself for the lapse in judgment. For as loud the woman who incites explosions on purpose for shits and giggles is, you forget sometimes that people being loud  _ at  _ her is something that takes her back to a painful past. 

You sigh, and you soften, and in doing so, the fragile dam that halted your tears due to the surprise of her presence breaks anew. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought you were eating at the firehouse tonight.” 

“I dropped the girls off with Abby and came home,” she replies, as she bridges the distance between you and takes a tentative position at the opposite end of the couch. “When you texted me at lunch, you didn’t sound very you. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.” 

For a moment, you contemplate falling back on your relentless instinct to push her away - to shut down and hide from her, and to keep her at arms’ length. You falter, however, in the resplendent warmth and effusive light of the woman who stares back at you. She does a lot of things with those elastic features and eyes always comically wide, but in ten years, the expression she wears when she offers the strength to carry the both of you for a while has never changed. Her gaze, sincere and inviting, transcends both the words she can’t find and the scripts she doesn’t have. 

And you can’t do it. 

You can’t shut her out, not when she looks at you like she’d move the stars for you to feel secure and cherished in your vulnerability with her. 

“I’m not okay.” 

Your chin trembles at the admission, and you want to reach out for her, but you keep your hands in your lap for now, squeezing them tight as if to dispel some of the negative energy in your body. Jillian notices, and wordlessly offers her hand to you instead. The small gesture proves enough for you to relax, just a little, in her company. You interlace your fingers with a grateful, watery smile. 

“I mean, it’ll  _ be  _ okay, but right now, I’m  _ not  _ okay. I’ve actually had the worst day, and I don’t know what I want, or need; I just wanted to come home. And not be there anymore. And maybe I did really want to see you so you’d make me laugh and it wouldn’t be so bad. Or you’d hold me and tell me you believe in me. I don’t know.” 

The stillness that falls in the interim between when you finish and Jillian begins isn’t quite comfortable; it’s awkward and stretches on for a little too long, settling on your shoulders like a suit that’s too big for you. Rubbing her thumb over the curve of your finger, she bites her lip, contemplative. 

“I know you don’t like to be touched when you’re upset,” she says finally, slowly. 

Holding up your entwined hands, you shoot her a questioning look. 

Rather than be put off by your saucy attitude, she brightens, giving your hand a squeeze and, after a second’s thought, a kiss. The sunbeams spilling out from her smile brighten you in return, and all of a sudden, you don’t seem to be fighting for every inhale any more. “You know what I mean. But I’d really like to put my arm around your shoulders right now. Would that be okay?” 

You nod your consent. 

Jillian shifts, sliding over to the spot at your side, and pulls you close, resettling your bodies so your head rests on her shoulder. She retrieves your hand. With her free one, she plays with your hair, a steady rhythm of soothing affection. You bury your face against her neck, comforted by the conflicting scents of cinnamon and singe. Her scent hasn’t changed much over the years, and the consistency reminds you of all of the times you’ve found solace and safety in her arms. She’s never left you, and she’s never second-guessed your place in her life, no matter how many times she’s helped you pick up the pieces after something slips and shatters. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

You don’t, but you feel like you owe her an explanation for the bewildering state she came home to find you in, so you do. The anxiety in your chest sharpens as you walk her through the series of events which culminated in you sobbing into her shoulder, but the pain recedes under her gentle touch as she caresses away the deepest insecurities and fears the setback at work has brought to the forefront of your mind. She smooths the jagged edges of your defenses, filling the places where the light can’t quite reach with her own luminescence. 

You’re not sure how long the two of you sit suspended in time in the sanctuary of each other, but when it passes, you feel lighter, like you’ve let go of some of the weight bearing down on your back. The quiet that encompasses you in the aftermath no longer suffocates you, because Jillian is still there when it arrives, holding you and encouraging you with her endless reserves of support. 

“That sounds really frustrating, cupcake,” she affirms, once she’s certain you have no more left to say. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a bad day.” 

For some reason, the simple validation makes you teary-eyed again. You burrow further into her embrace, holding tight to her collar as her heart beats below your fingers and grounds you in the present. She moves to tighten her arms around your waist. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

You shake your head and mumble apologies alongside  _ this is enough  _ and  _ I love you _ . There’s a pause, and then fingertips under your chin as Jillian tilts your head up to look at her. Her brow is furrowed, her gaze otherwise unreadable. “Why are you sorry, babe?” 

“For snapping at you. For making such a big deal out of this.” You shrug, your voice dropping into a softer register as you finally acknowledge the fear you’ve never fully been able to force away. “For being a mess.” 

As if struck by a bolt of inspiration, Jillian snaps her fingers and pokes you in the forehead. The corners of her lips tug upward in expectation of whatever point she’s about to make. 

“Data collection,” she says. 

You blink. Whatever you expected her to say or do in response to what you’ve shared with her, it isn’t this. “Um. What?” 

“Data collection,” Jillian repeats emphatically - as if that clarifies anything for you. “We need to think scientifically about this. How many times have you woken up in the middle of the night to hold me after a nightmare?” 

“A lot?” 

“Quantifiable data. A numerical value.” 

“More than ten, less than a hundred? That’s…the best I’ve got.” 

“You’re being way generous with the low end of the distribution there, but okay. Fair. How many times have you breathed with me and talked me down from a panic attack?” 

“A lot,” you reply. “In the same range of ‘more than ten, less than a hundred.’” 

“How many times have you had to clean up your wife  _ and  _ the shower because she came home slimed, threw up, and cried from the resulting sensory meltdown?” 

“Not as often. Maybe…six times in ten years?” 

“Eight. I kept track,” she corrects, with a grin that seems entirely out-of-place for the subject matter. “Not exactly the highlight of my career. Buuuut.” She reaches down to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “How many times did you love me less because I needed to lean on you?” 

“Zero.” 

“How many times did you regret being with me while I was covered in slime, snot, vomit, or little chunks of baby poop?” 

“Ugh, zero until you had to say it so graphically.” You shuffle upright and playfully push her away as you settle into the spot beside her, catching onto what she’s getting at. 

“So, the evidence supports what conclusions in terms of how I feel about you when you’re not feeling like your best self?” 

You sigh and wipe the last few straggling tears from your face. “That you love me no matter what,” you acquiesce. “That it’s okay to ask for help. And that you won’t leave me just because I have a bad day or cry or need you to hold me while I vent.” 

“Bingo.” Jillian leans over to place a kiss on the top of your head, then cups your cheek and graces your lips with her own. “When I said I was all-in for this, for us, I meant it, okay? I  _ want  _ to be there for you. I always want to take care of you when you’re sad, just like you always take care of me.” 

And suddenly, you understand with perfect clarity why you stormed out of your lab earlier in the afternoon, driven by an almost-compulsive need to come back to this space, this little corner of the world you share with her. It wasn’t that you wanted to be  _ here _ , so much as  _ here  _ refers to a physical space. It’s that you always rediscover your best self in the arms of the woman you’ve found home in. 

“You’ll figure out whatever went wrong,” she continues, “because you’re you, and you’re just as stubborn as you are brilliant. But how about for now I get you some water and then we can go cuddle in bed, hm?” 

Somewhere in between when Jillian stands to offer you her hand, and when you follow her only to throw your arms around her and hug her tight, you manage a nod. The words aren’t enough - will never be enough - to communicate to her how much she means to you, how lucky you feel to have her, and how much your life has changed for the better because of her steadfast presence in it. 

So, you show her, instead. You kiss her deeply, infusing it with all of your adoration for her and her unorthodox sweetness until she huffs out a pleased noise against you. When you have to break for air, Jillian boops your nose with her finger before scampering off to the kitchen - her own, strange way of showing affection and acknowledging the move for what it was. It makes perfect sense to you. The woman who freezes because she finds talking about feelings so uncomfortable has given you a lot of words tonight, and you understand why they’re failing her now, too. 

You make your way down the hall to your bedroom while Jillian retrieves your drinks. You are thirsty, you realize, and your throat does hurt from crying so hard for so long. Exhaustion is creeping in around your edges, but you no longer feel like you’ll be using it as an avenue for avoidance if you rest. You change into a loose nightdress and remove your makeup in the bathroom, letting the lingering pain of the day wash away with the water. 

Jillian has unpinned her hair from its elaborate updo by the time you return, setting long, golden curls free to tumble over her shoulders. She dons an oversized t-shirt you’re certain is yours, and she’s dimmed the lights to a level you could easily fall asleep to. She wraps her arm around your waist while you sip on your water, then encourages you to lie down with her. Humming a tune low in her throat, she strokes your hair while you nod off in her arms. 

Right as you start to fall asleep, though, you snap awake, your heart racing and your mind spinning when a forgotten responsibility makes itself suddenly known. You bolt upright, surprised when your wife doesn’t look startled, or even fazed, by the action. 

“Jill! Wait!” you say. “We can’t - we can’t go to sleep yet; we have to pick up the girls from the firehouse. We have to make sure we give them their baths…and get them into their pajamas…I mean, are we going to set an alarm? Shit, what time is it now? I didn’t even think…”

Jillian doesn’t respond right away, just smiles and shushes you, kissing your head until you quiet. “I let Abby and Erin know we might need the night off,” she assures you. “They know if they don’t hear from us by eight to take the kids back to their place for a sleepover.” 

“But - but do the girls have their stuff? Did you pack them a bag?” You let her ease you back down against the mattress, sighing as she gently kneads your shoulders in spite of the questions you still have. 

“You know Erin Gilbert distrusts any bag I give her on sight,” Jillian teases, “in general, and especially after the chinchilla incident.” 

“Okay, in fairness to you, neither of us knew our daughter was tall enough to open the enclosure.” 

“Let alone smuggle all  _ four  _ out the door without us noticing.” 

“Honestly, we should have seen that coming the moment we decided you would carry.” 

“Yeah.” Her brows hit her hairline in amusement at the memory. She mouths  _ whoops  _ , then throws her hand out to accentuate her point. “Buuuut we didn’t, and the moral of the story is that the Yatesbert house now distrusts any bags that my stunning and elegant wife didn’t personally pack herself. The girls have clothes there, and some toys. Not that they’ll need them - I’m sure they’ll keep Abby and Erin up all night asking how ghosts work.” 

You can’t help but laugh, too, at the reminder of  _ that  _ day. Of you and Jillian on the couch, with the phone on speaker between you, the both of you in absolute, astonished awe of the situation unfolding. Of your hand clamped firmly over your wife’s mouth to muffle the sound of her losing her shit while Erin made the least dignified sounds you were never permitted to acknowledge again, while you did your best to act appropriately horrified and apologetic. You hadn’t realized the physicist was afraid of rodents prior to that day, but boy did you never forget it after. 

Of course, Jillian had looked entirely too gleeful about the entire ordeal from the moment you got the call to the moment you managed to collect up all  _ six  _ of your children and wrangle them back into your townhouse, which did  _ not  _ endear her to Erin. The jailbreak hadn’t been her fault, per se - but your wife was summarily banned from packing responsibilities all the same. 

Jillian rubs your back while you snicker into the sheets, your bad day all but forgotten. “Made you laugh,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss between your shoulders. “That’s what you wanted, right? You’d come home and I’d make you laugh?” 

“And tell me you believe in me?” you add. A heat rises in your cheeks when you request the additional reassurance, but you justify it by telling yourself she would want you to ask, and she would be happy to do it. 

“I do. And I’m proud of you. For asking for what you need just now and for letting me take care of you tonight.” 

Your brow furrows. “So it’s…really okay? To just go to sleep and snuggle? It’s taken care of?” 

Jillian reaches over you to turn off the lamp on your nightstand, plunging the two of you into a soothing darkness before your anxious mind has any additional opportunity to plague you with worries. “It’s really taken care of, sweetheart,” she replies. “I took care of it all so I could take care of you.” 

Maybe another day, you might have found it in yourself to argue, or to insist you finish your never-ending to-do list before you allow yourself the peace of  _ breathing  _ and  _ being  _ alongside the woman you love. But tonight, you surrender to the vulnerability of your shared, intertwined existence, and to the reality of being human, as messy and unpleasant as it can be sometimes. You think to yourself that the human experience isn’t all bad, all things considered - not when people like Jillian Holtzmann exist, and when the stars aligned in exactly the right way for the two of you to exist at the same time. For your lives to align in exactly the right way for the two of you to face the challenges of being human as a team. 

“Shhh,” Jillian murmurs, tucking a few strands of your hair behind your ear as you relax into her, snuggling her close. “Rest, babe. I’ve got you. Always.” 

This time, you believe her, without reservation. 

You are home. 

She is home. 

And there’s nowhere else you’d rather be, than this moment right here, with her. 


End file.
